Archive for the ‘The Pleasure Principle’ Category

The woman in this photo is a robot (aka sexbot, for that inevitably will be her primary utilization).

The uncanny valley — that stage in lifelike robot development when near-but-not-quite-there-yet-similarity to real humans provokes a creeped-out response — has always been an obstacle to nerds designing anime-tronic lovers. We like our cute Wall-E robots; we don’t like our cute fucktoy robots that look a little bit “off”.

But recent rapid advances in sexbot tech hint at a future that is not far off when the uncanny valley is ascended and sexbots are almost indistinguishable from real (Playboy Centerfold) women. When that future arrives — and it will, barring a cleansing patriarchal cataclysm — millions of romantically unsuccessful or unsatisfied men living in Obesitopia and Androgynopolis and Sheryl Sandberg-La will face a choice:

Their choices will be easy to understand, even if it is the final choice civilization makes before its disappearance from the earth.

Like this:

Most men won’t experience the rush of having real power and so are apathetic to the pursuit of it, but the few rare ones who get a taste of power never stop chasing it. Familiarity, in this case, breeds intense longing.

It’s akin to youthful beauty for women. The has-been model knows what she has lost better than the never-was plain jane knows what she has to gain.

Porn for women is an overlooked phenomenon, partly because the type of porn that stimulates women isn’t as visually arresting as the porn that consumes men. The pink and moist pyrotechnics we associate with the online porn that readily captures male attention does little for women (though recent data suggest more women are turning to online porn for sexual relief, the numbers are still low, under 20%).

Female porn utilizes a different medium of arousal delivery, but the effect on the female libido and ability to form healthy relationships is just as profound as that of online porn’s effect on men.

So what is female porn? It’s pulp romance — in the form of books, movies and TV — that caresses lady limbic lobes to sprout slick clit dick. In a word: words.

The premise: women are different than men, in the most fundamental ways imaginable. Evolution as old as time has resulted in a sexually reproducing species that has inherited sexual, mental and psychological traits differentiating the sexes.

If you can’t accept this premise (self-delusion is a widespread affliction in post-America), then you won’t understand how it is words can have the same power over women’s horny levels that graphic crotch-slapping close-ups have on men’s horny levels. Nevertheless, it’s true. Women are turned on when they read salacious stories that allow their hindminds to fill in the sticky details.

There are hundreds of thousands of self-published ebook authors, but according to Amazon, only 40 of these have managed to make a profit by selling over 1 million copies of their ebooks over the last five years. Ms. Wild happens to be one of them. What is her secret? […]

So let’s look at what Ms. Wild writes about in her novels. Her first novel, Hardwired, is about a young woman’s encounters with “an array of sexual kinks.” Her subsequent novels are along the same vein. At the end of the article, a writer for Ms. Wild’s new publishing house says she is happy to “focus on writing sex scenes” because: “I just want to write wicked hot books.”

And here the light begins to flicker onto the truth. Under the euphemism of “romance,” Ms. Wild peddles erotica, the literary equivalent of pornography. While her books are not filled with nude photographs or graphic video, they contain the same drug reconstituted into another form: words that translate into pornographic images which burn into the minds of their readers (to see for yourself, excerpts of her novels are available on her website).

Ms. Wild, it turns out, is the female equivalent of Hugh Hefner. She is a verbal drug pusher, shoving words as potent as cocaine at her own gender.

And droves of women are clearly addicted. In an industry that is insanely competitive, where most authors earn below the poverty line, Ms. Wild’s first novel, published in 2014, was making $500,000 in royalties per month soon after its release. Ms. Wild sold a total of 1.4 million copies of this book and agreed to a $6.25 million advance for five books. She also started a new publishing house, which has already sold more than a million copies and hit the New York Times Bestseller list with one of its first titles, Calendar Girl.

The bottom line on the numbers of female porn consumers:

But according to Laurie Kahn, producer of the documentary film Love Between the Covers: “More than 70 million people in the USA alone read at least one romance novel per year, and most of them read many more.”

The US Census for 2015 shows there are 100 million women between 18 and 64 years old living in the United States. If Kahn’s number is correct, and assuming that the majority of those “70 million people” are women, then up to 70 percent of American women are covertly consuming literary pornography.

Does any of this matter? Parents want to shield their kids from visual porn, but they don’t feel nearly the same protective affront when a woman is reading a pulp romance novel in public.

You are sitting on a bus during your morning commute. In the seat next to you, there is a male passenger reading Penthouse. Chances are you may feel upset, perhaps disgusted. You might even demand that he stop.

On the other side, there is a female passenger holding a book with a very plain cover, entitled Into the Fire. With a mysterious title like that, this book could be about anything. If you ask, the passenger will tell you that it is a “romance” novel by Meredith Wild. The passenger has always loved these kinds of books, she tells you, ever since she read Jane Austen as a teenager. Innocent fairy tale, you conclude.

Both passengers are consuming pornography. But the woman is doing it so discreetly that almost no one recognizes it—often, not even the statistics.

Here’s the thing: the woman reading Into the Fire on the bus is popping a public lady boner just as assuredly as a man scouring Pornclearinghouse on his iPhag is jutting impudently into the public space. From five feet away, typeset is harder to discern than a streaming PIV video; that’s the only difference between the porn-consuming man and woman and the social norms they are violating.

Among those who admit that romance literature is pornography, there is a tendency to consider it “soft-core” (some also downplay it as “mommy porn“). This implies that it is less potent and less dangerous than the “hard” visual stuff that fries the brains of men.

When viewed from a male perspective, it makes sense to classify “pornmance” as “soft” pornography. Men are more visual than women, so they respond more strongly to photographs and video. To men, images are like crack cocaine, and literary pornography is mere marijuana.

But for women, the opposite is true. Women are less visual, and so less attracted to the internet pornography that is irresistible to men. For women, visual pornography should be considered a light beer while the emotionally charged “pornmance” novel is 70-proof liquor, hard-core pornography.

100% truefact. This is something that tradcons don’t get.

And there are many “romance alcoholics.” Women get addicted to romance books in the same way that men get addicted to photographs and videos. In 2011, one psychologist reported that she was “seeing more and more women who are clinically addicted to romantic books.”

Time for a NO DIDDLE movement.

Like other addictions, “pornmance” novels mess with women’s brains and wreak havoc in their lives. According to therapists, these books can cause women to become dissatisfied with their marriages, to become “dangerously unbalanced,” and according to a pornography addiction counselor, to have affairs.

A smarmy white knight would never finger a cause for the high divorce rate that didn’t apportion blame entirely on men. In the pussy pedestaler’s worldview, only drunk, abusive, layabout men end marriages. To them, women aren’t capable of crass sexual escapism driven by primal insatiable lusts.

The authoress of this article, Lea Singh, must be a CH reader. Little spoon?

If online porn is a problem for society, then so is word porn. If you argue that online porn is causing men to “drop out” and deep-six their marriages and relationships, then you have to also argue that word porn is causing women to do the same.

I’ve said it before to obstinate tradcons and their ironic bedfellows, the man-hating feminist cunts:

It takes two to tango. Especially if that tango two-steps to the metagrave.

Holy cow, CH! Do you realize what a smash a “rise of the sex robots” movie would be? How prophetic, how powerful, how promotional of shiv-right values? I hope you’ve got something in the works, or at least a treatment copyrighted. Nobody has foreseen the dystopian ramifications the way you have, as far as I know. Nobody is better talented to tell the tale. And certainly nobody deserves more to profit from his unique insights. Get scribing, my man!

M7

I preen. It’s funny you should mention this now, M7, because I’ve recently been mulling the idea of a dystopian fright-fi book about a lovelorn beta male who genuinely falls in love with his Class Sharapova sexbot, and whose satiation tragically compels him to spurn the surprising affection of a flesh and blood plain jane who yearns for a family. My idea was for the story to focus on the uncanny intimacy that develops between the two main characters as their love (or maybe just his love, as the AI would not have yet progressed to undetectable emulation of human emotion), disturbing in concept yet tender in execution, pulses against a backdrop of civilization rapidly yielding to a cataclysmic sex market disruption that dwarfs the schism online porn and obesity had caused the prior generation.

It’s not like the real world isn’t serving up daily reminders that sexbots are coming, sooner than we care to think.

Certainly there have been a few movies that have tackled this subject, if tangentially or farcically. Her, Austin Powers, Blade Runner, Cherry 2000, The Stepford Wives, and the underrated indie psych-thriller Ex Machina come to mind. But none of these movies, except maybe Her and Ex Machina, really explored the sensual and psychological possibilities of sexbot love in context with the cultural upheaval that sexbots would doubtlessly unleash on advanced hedonistic civilizations. That’s where I hope to fill the gap, so to speak.

Like this:

How rare is female beauty? The answer to this question has yuge implications for the functioning of the sexual market and the average man’s odds of landing himself a cutie-pie. Reader Wrecked ‘Em tries to get a handle on the raw numbers, and cleverly draws a connection to the normal distribution of IQ among humans:

If you take the HB10 scale to generally mean a normal distribution with mean = 5 and standard deviation = 1, it works out reasonably well.

7 = 1 woman in 44
8 = 1 woman in 741
9 = 1 woman in 31,574

With a global female population of 3.52 billion there would be 1,009 “10s” in the world. That’s a reasonable definition of an HB10: “one of the 1,000 most beautiful women in the world”.

Makes an interesting comparison to IQ…

7 = IQ 130
8 = IQ 145 (low bound for “genius”)
9 = IQ 160

Like IQs above 150, at some point it becomes difficult to “test” since IQ and beauty aren’t like horsepower — better to get them together and sort them into a closed-order ranking based on their own opinion of each other.

Let’s assume (justifiably) that the 1-to-10 scale of female beauty predominately applies to under-35 women. Aging has such a deleterious effect on women’s looks that the 1-10 ranking no longer sufficiently captures the over-35 woman’s negative contribution to the normal distribution curve of female beauty. There are so few 7s, let alone 9s and 10s, among women older than 40 that to include them in the data set would dramatically skew the beauty curve to the left side, where the has-beens reside.

Given the above age-adjusted correction, there is still a problem with Wrecked ‘Em’s statistical premise. To wit: If you live in a region with lots of under-30 women who haven’t let themselves bloat into lardasses, you might be surprised to learn that only 1 out of 44 of them qualify as an HB7 (or higher). The reality is different than a normal distribution of female beauty would suggest; there are way more bangable 7s strolling around our urban fertility sinks than 1-in-44. I’d say the number of 7s or higher in any given population of White, under-30, slender* girls is closer to 1-in-5.

What gives? Well, I propose that the female beauty curve for prime fertility women (ages 15 to 25) is right-skewed. That is, if excess adiposity is avoided, a larger share of fertile young women than is inferred under a normal distribution are cute enough to impregnate.

That right skew in fertile female beauty is hard to quantify, but readers are welcome to take a shiv at it. Now you can argue that one man’s 7 is another man’s 5, but the real world evidence refutes you; most men pretty much agree on which women are 7s, which are 9s, and which are LSMV pawns in your master plan to womanize the fuck out of this gay earth.

So we’re left with the problem of graphing the distribution of a primally fertile female sub-population that has more 6s, 7s and 8s in it than a normal distribution would predict. (Although perhaps not many more 9s and 10s; extreme right or left tail rarity isn’t budged that much by an overall skew in the entire demographic.) My guess is that between the ages of 15 and 25, the representation of HB7s is triple what you would find in a perfectly normal distribution of female beauty.

What about the left side of the female beauty curve? Meh, WGAF. But for shits and giggles, gross obesity (but I repeat myself) has clearly increased the ranks of women in the unfuckable 1-3 categories. Regular, height-weight proportionate unattractive girls (plain janes) still exist, but their relative numbers have been crushed (heh) by the growing (heh) class of fat chicks. In a healthy America, say, 10% of women would be 4s; in a super-sized America, only 5% would be 4s because half of the 4s would have gotten fat and demoted themselves to 3s and 2s and “I’d sooner pork an apple pie”s.

Perhaps, then, the Current Year prime fertility female beauty curve looks more like a camel’s double-hump: lots of, ironically, sexually invisible fatties, and enough bangable slender babes to keep men at least partially invested in making a go at it rather than surrendering entirely to Pornhub. As age gathers, the female beauty curve starts to resemble a normal distribution, until a sexual worthlessness inflection point is reached and nearly all the women bunch up on the far left-behind side of the curve.

*Obesity so badly damages women’s SMV that there are wide (heh) swaths of the USA where barely any young women are attractive enough to inspire thoughts of the bang.

PS Comparison of the extreme tails is revealing. My hunch is that the left tail of female looks is longer/fatter than the right tail. If 1-in-30,000 women are 9s, then 1-in-300 are 2s. And this mismatch accords with personal observation. It’s probably a consequence of the sheer number of genetic permutations that have to go right to produce a 9, as opposed to the relatively light demands placed on the God of Biomechanics to produce a 2. (Basically, Nature stops de-bugging her code, and lets the mutational load run havoc.)

Like this:

That’s Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin. Photo was taken sometime in the 1970s, I’d guess.

As a psychological experiment, its raw unapologetic essence can’t be topped for rudely revealing the fundamental psychosexual difference shaping male and female desire. Both men and women — at least normal, sexually dimorphic men and women and not bitter androgynous blobs — would feel sexually aroused by this photo.

Which really says all you need to know about the sexes. Men are aroused by the sight of a beautiful woman submitting to a dominant man administering disciplinary blows to her backside. Men imagine themselves in the role of the man in the photo, and become excited.

Women are aroused by the sight of a dominant man exerting his uncompromising power over a vulnerable woman surrendering to her punishment. Women imagine themselves in the role of the beautiful woman in the photo, and become excited.

If you could only know one thing about women, this photo, and how men and women react differently to its stimuli, is sufficient to guide you through life.

CH, your trolling of Joyce Carol Oats is one of the highlight of my day! I read your tweets with my morning coffee before work and they put me in a sunny mood for the rest of the day. She just keeps barfing up the same tony progressive cliches, and you just keep swatting them aside one by one. The time you suggested she may be suffering from toxoplasma gondii was a hilarious zenith, but today’s unrelenting rope-a-dope was like a marathon of mirth. Thanks for the good times!

Believe me, the pleasure was all mine. For those wondering what this is about, click here, or here, for representative excerpts of the CH-Joyce Traveling Shiv Show. Unfortunately, it looks like Joyce, finally!, blocked yer magnanimous soul-carver after a year of shiv twists that would have left a sane cat lady yenta reaching for her pills by day two of her Twatter torment.

I don’t have a particular animus for Joyce beyond her service to me as a stand-in for every aging shitlib spinster with the gall to think she can happily waltz into a rhetorical freefire zone without receiving a .50 caliber shiv to the id, and unload a Lifetime Channel’s worth of vapid (((anti-White platitudes))) while operating under the impression her boilerplate liberalism counts as deeply suppressed truths.

For all practical purposes, Joyce was my muse to abuse, as a lesson for the others. That lesson?

Their time as race equalism propagandists shielded from blowback by the media Hivemind and from inside insular liberal cryodomes scattered along the US coasts is over. There’s a new paradigm in town. The front line is everywhere.